Peter Robinson - Friend of the Devil

“What happened?”

“Well, I met this bloke and… one thing led to another. I had way too much to drink and we smoked a couple of joints and to cut a long story short, the next morning I woke up in his bed.”

“You did what?”

“You heard me. I met this bloke and went back to his place.”

“And you slept with him?”

“Well… yes.”

“This was the first time you’d met him?”

“Yes. Winsome… what is it?”

“Nothing.” Winsome shook her head. “Go on.”

Annie took a long swig of wine. “He turned out to be a bit younger than I probably realized at first, and—”

“How young?”

Annie shrugged. “Dunno. Twenty-two, twenty-three, around there.”

Winsome’s eyes widened. “A boy! You picked up a boy in a bar and slept with him?”

“Don’t be so naive. These things do happen, you know.”

“Not to me, they don’t.”

“Well, you’re obviously not going to the right bars.”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it. I’m serious. I would never go home with anyone I met in a bar, and I would certainly never go home with someone so young.”

“But Winsome, you’re only thirty!”

Winsome’s eyes blazed. “And I would still never go to bed with a twenty-two-year-old. And you… how could you do that? It’s sick. You must be old enough to be his mother.”

“Winsome, lighten up. People are starting to look at us. Maybe if I’d had a baby when I was eighteen I could be his mother, okay? But I didn’t, so cut the Oedipus shit.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

“I never knew you were such a prude.”

“I am not a prude. You don’t have to be a prude to have…”

“To have what? What’s your point?”

“Moral standards. It’s not right.”

“Oh, moral standards, is it now? Not right?” Annie drank more wine. She was starting to feel dizzy, and more than a touch angry. “Well, let me tell you what you can do with your moral standards, little Miss High-and-Mighty! You can shove them—”

“Don’t say that!”

Annie stopped. There was something in Winsome’s tone that caused her to back off. The two of them shuffled in their seats awhile, eyeing each other. Annie poured herself some more wine. “I thought you were my friend,” she said finally. “I didn’t expect you to go all judgmental on me.”

“I’m not being judgmental. I’m just shocked, that’s all.”

“What’s the big deal? That’s not the point of the story, anyway, his age or having a one-night stand or smoking a couple of joints, or whatever it seems to have put that hair up your arse.”

“Don’t talk to me like that.”

Annie held her hand up. “Fine, fine. I can see this isn’t working. Another bad idea. Let’s just pay the bill and go.”

“You haven’t finished your wine.”

Annie picked up her glass and drained it. “You can have the rest of the bottle,” she said, dropping a twenty-pound note on the table. “And you can keep the fucking change.”

The sound of a car screeching to a halt in front of his cottage around half past nine startled Banks. He wasn’t expecting anyone. The only person who usually dropped by on spec was his son Brian, but he was supposed to be rehearsing in London with his new band. Well, it was the same band, really, the Blue Lamps, but they had replaced Brian’s songwriting partner and fellow guitarist. Their sound had changed a little, but from the couple of demos Brian had played him, Banks thought the new guitarist was better than the one he replaced. The songwriting remained an issue, but Banks was certain Brian would come through, carry the burden.

By the time the knock at the door came, Banks was already there, and when he opened it, he was surprised to see Annie Cabbot standing there.

“Sorry it’s so late,” she said. “Can I come in?”

Banks stood back. “Of course. Anything wrong?”

“Wrong? No, why should there be anything wrong? Can’t I drop in on an old friend when I feel like it?” As she walked in she stumbled against him slightly, and he took her arm. She looked at him and smiled lopsidedly. He let go.

“Of course you can,” said Banks, puzzled by her manner and discomfited from being so jarringly dragged away from his evening alone with the book, wine and music. Bill Evans had given way to John Coltrane some time ago, and the tenor sax improvised away in the background, flinging out those famous sheets of sound. He knew it would take him a few moments to adjust to having company. “Drink?” he said.

“Lovely,” said Annie, flinging off her jacket. It landed on the computer monitor. “I’ll have what you’re having.”

Banks went into the kitchen and filled up a glass of wine for Annie and one more for himself, emptying the bottle. Annie leaned against the doorjamb as he handed her the drink. “Is that all that’s left?” she said.

“I’ve got another bottle.”

“Good.”

She was definitely unsteady on her feet, Banks thought, as he followed her back through to the living room, and she flopped down on the armchair.

“So what brings you here?” he asked.

Annie drank some wine. “That’s nice,” she said. “What? Oh, nothing. Like I said, just a friendly visit. I was having dinner with Winsome in Eastvale and I just thought… you know… it’s not far away.”

“Eastvale’s quite a drive from here.”

“You’re not insinuating I’ve had too much to drink, are you?”

“No. I—”

“Good, then.” Annie held up her glass. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” said Banks. “What did Winsome have to say?”

“Oh, just stuff. Boring stuff. That arsehole Templeton.”

“I heard that the interview with Hayley’s parents didn’t go well.”

“Well, it wouldn’t, would it? What could you have been thinking of, putting those two together? What can you be thinking of even having him in the station?”

“Annie, I don’t really want to discuss—”

Annie waved her hand in the air. “No. I know. Of course not. I don’t, either. That’s not why I came. Let’s just forget about bloody Templeton and Winsome, shall we?”

“Fine with me.”

“How about you, Alan? How are you doing? Julia Ford asked after you, you know. She’s very attractive in a lawyerly sort of way. Don’t you think?”

“I never really thought about her that way.”

“Liar. What’s the music?”

“John Coltrane?”

“It sounds weird.”

Banks made to get up. “I’ll put something else on if you like.”

“No, no. Sit down. I didn’t say I didn’t like it, just that it sounded weird. I don’t mind weird sometimes. In fact I quite like it.” She gave him an odd smile and emptied her glass. “Oops, it looks as if we might need more wine, after all.”

“That was quick,” said Banks. He went into the kitchen to open another bottle, wondering what the hell he should do about Annie. He shouldn’t really give her any more wine; she had clearly had enough already. But she wouldn’t react well to being told that. There was always the spare room, if that was what it came to. That was what he decided upon.

Back in the living room, Annie had settled in the armchair with her legs tucked under her. It wasn’t often she wore a skirt but she was wearing one today, and the material had creased up, exposing half her thighs. Banks handed her the glass. She smiled at him.

“Do you miss me?” she asked.

“We all miss you,” Banks said. “When are you coming back?”

“No, I don’t mean that, silly. I mean, do you miss me?”

“Of course I do,” said Banks.

“Of course I do,” Annie echoed. “What do you think of toyboys?”